


The Fields of Vermont

by aeroport_art



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Epic, Fairy Tale Style, Familiars, Fantasy, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-07
Updated: 2009-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cat, a horse, and Arthur, and miles left to travel. Future!fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fields of Vermont

**Author's Note:**

> So, last month I went skiing in Vermont. We took a car up and on the way down, I zoned out on the scenery and thought of this. Thanks to serotonin_storm for the awesome shake down, ceirseach for the closest reading I've ever received by a beta--you seriously made all the difference, hon--and mooyoo because I love her and SHE'S IN THE FANDOM NOW, WOO WOO.

It’s the middle of the night when Arthur wakes up.

A cat sits at his window. It’s on the inside sill, feet together and tail primly curled over. There are markings on its cheeks, a little mask of white beneath golden, luminescent eyes. Whiskers so long Arthur can see them from across the room, thin silhouettes against the moon behind.

Arthur sits up. The cat jumps down—not into his room, but outside, sailing through the ribbed glass window with a splash like it’s water. 

When Arthur dashes over, fumbles the latch open and cranes his neck outside, he sees it.

In the castle courtyard, a long ways down, the cat pauses, little black dot. Then it scampers away and disappears into the night.

\-----

 

It’s no mystery, the cat. 

Arthur wakes up the next morning, anxious and restless. His hands twitch all the way through breakfast. His food isn’t hot enough, his milk not cold enough, and in the afternoon he sends two of his knights on fool’s errands just to get them away. It’s when his chambermaid bursts into tears over his unfairly harsh scolding, however, that Arthur sighs, stops. He can’t put it off any longer—knows what must be done.

It’s no mystery. He has to follow the cat.

\-----

 

Seven days ago, when Uther Pendragon died, he left behind an ambivalent kingdom. Half his subjects rejoiced, while the others bit at their nails, fearing the shape their new king would take. Arthur won’t fault them their doubts; over the last seven years, he hasn’t done much to inspire confidence.

Behind closed doors and under their breaths, the people say, _It’s that servant, when the prince killed him. What was his name?_

They remember his name. _Merlin._

_The prince has never been the same since the day Merlin burned._

_Serves him right,_ the bolder ones add. _That’s blood on his hands._

\-----

 

Seven years ago in gentler times, gentler tales were being shared.

As one goes:

The Crown Prince once happened upon an abandoned litter of kittens at the foot of the castle stairs. He gathered the lot of them and spent the afternoon foisting the mewling critters upon friends and court officials, graciously saving the last kitten for his hapless manservant, Merlin.

The kitten had been unwanted—precocious and aloof, its fur black as night (but for the little mask of white beneath golden, luminescent eyes). Though handsome, the kit was as surly as a long-spurned spinster. It hissed at potential takers, nipped forcefully at waggling fingertips, and even Mamie from the kitchens, who usually had a way with animals, was given a nasty bite.

Thus came everyone’s surprise when Prince Arthur presented the misbehaving creature to his (equally misbehaving) manservant, only to have the kitten pad over, pause, then bump its nose affectionately against Merlin’s proffered fingers. A kindred spirit, perhaps.

The pair of them soon became inseparable. For days, neither kit nor manservant was seen without the other—Prince Arthur often watching on amusedly—yet the story does not end well. 

The friendship between Merlin and his kitten proved short-lived, for seven days later, he was charged with sorcery and burned at the stake.

As for the kitten, nobody ever did find out where it got off to.

\-----

 

The night before the execution, Arthur snuck down to the dungeons and unlocked the cuffs from around Merlin’s wrists. Merlin had stood there, rubbing at raw skin with hesitance clouding his eyes.

They didn’t have much time. The guards would’ve returned. But Merlin wouldn’t _go,_ and so Arthur seethed, _I never want to see you again_ and it was only then that Merlin nodded, turned. Disappeared into the night.

As the village slept, Arthur lashed two pigs and a rooster to the stake and set them alight. Later, when only charred flesh remained, he picked the skulls out and left a human one in place.

When Uther woke to find the sorcerer dead, he was angry but forgiving. He forgave Arthur his fury, his bloodlust—after all, Uther knew the sting of a sorcerer’s betrayal. Knew it to be the most consuming of hatreds.

Arthur knows hatred, has felt the heat of it upon his face a lifetime through, but never roaring within himself. Inside himself, there’s only loss and disappointment.

Disappointment is knowing the last thing Arthur ever said to Merlin is _I never want to see you again._

It wasn’t true, wasn’t _meant_ to be true when he said it, but Merlin held up his end of the bargain anyway.

It’s seven years later, anyhow, and Uther is dead. Arthur is king and Merlin is waiting. 

\-----

 

By the time Arthur’s suited up—his favourite mare Llamrei saddled and ready to go—it’s already past sunset. His men urge him to wait until the next day to set out.

He goes anyway. 

Under forest canopy with the southern stream burbling alongside, the slivered moon is reigning high and Arthur’s horse follows the trail by memory alone.

Scratches of twigs go unnoticed, though they come more frequently as the night wears on. It’s only when Llamrei catches an elbowed branch in her flank, drawing blood, that Arthur reluctantly stops to make camp. Ties her to a nearby alder and sets up his bedroll, starts a small fire.

Then, he waits.

And he waits, and he waits. The fire goes out, the embers cool, and still he’s alone.

Arthur lies down, wriggles a space between rocks and roots and shuts his eyes. Only then—never when he’s expecting it—does Merlin come.

In the darkness, Merlin glows ice blue. It rouses Arthur, his body stirring as if the sun’s come up, but when he blinks away the cobwebs of dreams it’s only Merlin—pale and skinny, big ears and coy smile, looking exactly the way Arthur left him seven years ago.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, gritty and loud, his voice echoing off the trunks of sleeping trees. The forest cringes, shushes him with its deadening moss and ferns. Before him, Merlin flickers, and Arthur’s chest clenches.

Merlin stays, though. Gently steps over brush until he’s above Arthur, and Arthur makes to get up but Merlin pushes him down. Gets on his knees, pushes him down with soft hands, then soft kisses.

Their kissing is quiet, silent behind the heavy curtains of branches and brush. Merlin smells like moist earth: rich, ancient, alive. Merlin pushes him down to the ground, their bodies aligned, and though Arthur’s older now—so much _older_ now—nothing’s changed at all. Merlin’s mouth is still soft and full. Merlin’s smile is still mischievous, impudent. Arthur’s the _king_ now, yet Merlin still takes. He takes, and he takes, and he takes.

When Arthur wakes, it’s just him and his horse, alone in the woods.

\-----

 

Doubt eats at Arthur with each mile travelled. After all, Albion flounders while its young king chases a ghost.

It’s silly. It’s selfish, and Arthur _knows_ better, knows that this isn’t what Merlin would want. In his mind, Merlin watches him, sullen and silent as Arthur pushes on, neglecting his people.

Merlin’s wounded eyes become too much to bear. After two long weeks, Arthur stops the next town over and pulls Llamrei around by the bit. 

They backtrack, following the river upstream in the direction of Camelot.

On the way, they pass a glade where glimpses of still water sparkle between the vertical slats of trees. Arthur gingerly leads Llamrei into it, lets her drink from the pond until her belly is round and full. Meanwhile, Arthur relaxes against a fallen log. 

He tips his head back and peers up through the foliage, sun blinding his eyes with each peek through the leaves. The days are getting warm. It will be May by the time Arthur gets back to Camelot, Midsummer’s Eve following fast on its heels.

He’s lost himself to visions of bonfires and feasts when an abrupt silence falls over the glade. Arthur sits up—Llamrei stands alert, ears pricked as water drips from the short hairs on her muzzle. The chorus of bush crickets dries up like hot steam.

When Arthur turns his head, he finds himself face-to-face with a cat. It pins him in place with piercing, golden eyes.

It’s not just any cat—it’s _the_ cat.

The cat blinks at him, looking sceptical. Its delicate, downy mouth curls into a feline smirk, and its little pink nose twitches, long whiskers trembling.

By the pond, Arthur’s horse softly nickers and edges closer, as if drawn to the scene.

The cat rises from its haunches and turns around with a purposeful air, then leaps off the log onto pebbled shore, kicking up a small spray of grit. Arthur clambers to his feet.

As the cat disappears into the woods, its tail flickers loftily as if beckoning Arthur along.

\-----

 

Arthur tires of hills. Never knew his kingdom to be so full of them—whether mountains or moguls, rocky or soft underfoot, with each one they cross it’s the same dull route:

Up. Then down. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Arthur tires of hills, and he thinks Llamrei does too. She’s taken a fancy to snorting loudly, bucking her head each time Arthur points them at another incline.

There is, however, one hill that begs to be known. The tallest of them all, it rises into the sky with its head in the clouds. Arthur wonders if it’s always sunny there, up at the top. Just the grass and the sun and no fuss in between.

\-----

 

It’s there, on the tallest hill of them all, that Arthur meets the giant.

The giant has a gentle soul, and he gives a great giggle when Arthur stabs into his toe with the tip of his broadsword. Just scoops him up, places Arthur into his palm with fingers the size of logs. Llamrei whinnies, gallops around silo-like ankles while Arthur spins in dizzying circles, propelled up ten storeys to face the giant’s curious eyes.

“ _Yourou quae,_ ” the giant grunts. His voice booms over, whipping back Arthur’s hair from his forehead.

Arthur is beyond patience. This time, when he points his sword into the thick skin beneath him and drives down with the full force of his weight, his blade sinks in a good foot or two.

The giant screams.

Arthur’s thrown upside-down by the shock of the cry, nearly tumbling off the hand—luckily, he manages to swing around a fat thumb and lands on the giant’s wrist, gaining some footing along pipe-like veins. Proceeds to shimmy down until he’s reached the ground.

Still terrain never felt so good.

“Llamrei!” Arthur calls, and upon whistle his steed gallops forth. He’s under no mind to look backwards, just throws himself onto his horse mid-run. Scrambles a bit before he’s properly seated, but once he’s there Arthur rides like the wind.

Pity; if he spared a single glance at the giant, he’d realize the futility of his efforts. 

A hundred yards down the line—Arthur’s blood pumping in his ears, Llamrei’s panting louder still—a female giant, three times the size of the first, blocks their path with an extended finger. It craters the earth where it lands, flinging grass clumps and dirt clods in every which way.

Arthur yanks hard on the reins and Llamrei rears up sharp, but sheer momentum propels them flank-first into the huge, leathery wall. Arthur gets thrown clean off his horse and lands some distance away.

The giantess roars something ear splitting and furious, and while Arthur has no idea what she’s saying, it probably has something to do with the loud wailing that continues behind her.

The giantess lifts her finger, leaving a long trench of exposed earth. Arthur strains to track her movements, but the sun is blinding behind her enormous body and it’s only when a shadow falls over him that he realizes—she’s pointing straight at him.

She’s going to squash him like a _bug._

The last thing Arthur thinks as the shadow grows larger—the finger swiftly descending upon him—is that, yes, it is indeed sunny here on this hill above clouds. 

\-----

 

That’s when Merlin shows up.

It figures. Merlin is infuriatingly consistent when it comes to eleventh-hour rescues.

\-----

 

Merlin, emitting a faint aura of blue, talks to the giantess. Their conversation goes something like this:

“ _Pour theuse thueh, jarymine rai ho,”_ Merlin says in a commanding tone, never mind that his outstretched arm is barely the size of the giantess’ eyelash.

 _“Ellik y sthaye!_ ” She retracts her attention from Arthur, who then dashes to Merlin’s side. To provide support, naturally.

 _“Illikye shtin?”_ Merlin asks, lowering his arm. His eyes crinkle up, and then he’s laughing heartily.

The giantess begins to laugh as well and it’s a horrible sound, like sheep bleats and foghorns, amplified by lungs the size of small castles. Behind her, the boy giant keeps crying. Louder, even, if that’s possible.

 _“Merlin,_ ” Arthur hisses. “What is going on?”

Finally, after an inexcusably rude pause, Merlin turns to look at Arthur. Merriment dances in his golden eyes.

A bad feeling forms in the pit of his gut and Arthur just frowns, reaches out to make a grab for Merlin’s arm, needing to feel his solidity, when a strong wind swoops in and whisks Merlin along with it.

Arthur’s head snaps to follow it, but all he can see is tall grass, gently swaying in the going breeze. 

“ _Damn it,_ Merlin!” Arthur cries, but he’s granted no answer.

Beyond the hill’s horizon a smattering of clouds hang low, and in the distance, Llamrei tosses her head and starts to trot towards Arthur.

Under his breath Arthur curses once more, but then he goes to meet her halfway.

\-----

 

Soon after they reach the bottom of Giant Hill (as Arthur has dubbed it), the cat returns. 

Not only that—over the ensuing weeks, it becomes a frequent caller.

The cat lies on Arthur’s shoulder sometimes, draped over his hauberk like a sack of furred jelly. There are scratches on Arthur’s armour now from all the times the cat lazily stretches, its claws scrabbling at metal.

Other times it curls up behind Arthur, a limp basket on his horse’s loins. Its tail flicks in time to Llamrei’s steady gait, sometimes helping to swish away the flies.

One rule remains steadfast, however; when the sun goes down, the cat takes off. Leaps to the ground and scuttles off to wherever it came from.

\-----

 

Arthur is flying. A beautiful song rides the air current with him, glimmering gold as it twists in the sky. He never knew music to be so lively and bright.

Arthur stretches his palm out, lays it over a long note and feels it course underneath him. It pulses in triple meter, then glides out to a slimming thread. 

He feels himself floating higher, higher, and ever higher. He should like to follow the sound, beautiful as it is. He’ll follow it anywhere.

Just below him, a tender melody starts to fall behind. Arthur crooks a finger, hooks the tail end of it with the intent to pull it up, but the small movement backfires.

Instead of merely speeding up, the tune wraps around his finger, twice, three times, tight as a vine. Arthur shakes his arm, trying to loosen the damned thing, when a chord bursts in from nowhere. The huge, golden sheet of it whips back in the velocity of their flight, and Arthur can’t pull it off, can’t peel the sound off.

Arthur chokes, tries to cough but no sound gets out. Tries again, heaving harder—finally, he feels something give. The chord reluctantly breaks up, splintering into disparate notes as it frees Arthur enough to suck a breath in.

The music fades. Arthur coasts to a rest, then falls from the sky.

\-----

 

He lands near water, on a sandy shore where waves lick at his feet. Overhead, Merlin’s face is ghostly and young and in the distance, Arthur hears faint, animal shrieks.

A violent cough punches out from his chest and saltwater froths out. He curls up, doubles over and gets the rest of it out in painful bursts.

 _Ugh,_ he thinks. _Sirens._ He should’ve known.

Merlin sits back on his feet, watching on with a worried look, and Arthur looks back, keeps his eye on him, making sure Merlin won’t vanish before he gets a chance to say—

“Merlin,” Arthur rasps, when he’s finally able. His voice sounds pitiful. He swallows hard, and then once more: “Merlin.”

Merlin smiles. Arthur can hear it—its clear, golden song. It’s what he’d been chasing, all those leagues up in the sky.

Down on earth, Merlin’s smile gives one last hurrah, shattering into a dazzling field of gold. Most of it lands on the sand, but some of it gets in the sea.

Some of it gets in Arthur’s eyes. He blinks gold, can’t see anything else but bright, rapturous gold.

“Merlin,” Arthur ventures, his voice still raw from near-drowning. “Not yet,“ he orders, but then there’s a gentle press of lips against his half-open mouth, and he knows it’s Merlin leaving.

Merlin leaves salt on his lips, little crystals of it and Arthur licks them in, mouth going dry.

\-----

 

The cat is a constant fixture now. It’s taken to sitting up straight, spine aligned to the hard stance of trees—trees that Arthur hasn’t seen for days, come to think of it.

The plains are truly a sobering affair. For miles, as far as the eye can see, there’s wheat. Wheat crests, wheat stems, wheat leaves.

The first day is meditative. Brass-coloured stalks ripple out in waves, bowing down to every gentle breeze. Llamrei parts the grass and it’s quite captivating, the way the fields move like a tide of chest-high water.

The second day remains soothing and welcomed. The third, the fourth days, equally so…

…until it’s been fourteen days straight of nothing but wheat. Wheat crests, wheat stems, wheat leaves and good God, one more minute of this, and Arthur could scream.

Does so, in fact—nigh on three weeks and the scene on repeat:

Arthur wakes up to a similar day. Climbs up on Llamrei who gives him a snort because she’s just as exhausted, feels equally useless. Nothing to do but to go on, travel forth, following the sun as it tracks through the sky.

The cat wades in through the wheat around noontime, dividing brass stems with her purposeful stalk. Stops in front of Llamrei and readies to jump, but Arthur puts his boot out and blocks the cat’s path mid-leap.

With a startled mewl, the cat awkwardly recovers. Paces around to the other side, muscles bunching in prep—

Arthur dismounts easily. Kneels to the ground, grabs the startled cat by the scruff. “ _Cat,_ ” he seethes. “You’re not getting on until I get some answers,” but the cat just stares back. Blinks haughtily, licks at the side of its mouth.

Arthur roars. He shakes the cat hard, a rough one-two shake that conveys nothing at all of how fucking _done_ he feels.

He feels like a gullible oaf, utterly conned and Arthur’s _had it_. Arthur screams, “Aren’t we _there yet?_ It’s been a month of this—this stupid, fucking field.” He grabs a fistful of wheat stalk with his free hand and rips it out from the ground, the destruction hardly cathartic. “I’m never eating barley again for as long as I live, and you…God, you _stupid cat._ You don’t even know where he _is,_ do you?”

Arthur pushes the cat away with a defeated sigh, then puts his head in both hands. Rubs hard at his eyes, slow and determined like he’ll look up and be elsewhere: he’ll find himself at a small village, or the ocean. Maybe the woods, or simply back home.

 _Home,_ Arthur thinks wearily. It doesn’t conjure the feelings it ought to. ‘Home’ shouldn’t be foreboding—shouldn’t feel like the last place he wants to be.

When Arthur opens his eyes, the cat is still there. It’s looking back at him intently, round golden eyes shot through with black slivers. In the glassy reflection, Arthur can faintly see twin images of himself. Crouched on the ground, his head hanging low.

“Fuck,” Arthur mutters.

He stands up and hoists himself up on his horse. This time, when the cat springs up to the saddle, Arthur lets it.

\-----

 

That night, Arthur sets up his bedroll and stretches out underneath the canopy of stars. He waits for the cat’s inevitable departure, but instead, it picks its way over and finds the remainder of Arthur’s modest dinner. Licks at the plate with soft, smacking sounds, then walks towards him. The cat climbs onto Arthur’s stomach with uneven steps. 

Bewildered, Arthur shifts around with the cat perched on unsteady legs. When he’s finally comfortable, the cat settles back down.

After awhile, Arthur ventures a hand out, reaching to touch the fur that spikes up from the cat’s rounded back. It’s unbelievably soft and Arthur relaxes, fingers tripping down vertebrae when a deep purr vibrates into the air.

Encouraged, Arthur moves his hand back to stroke the cat more firmly. He’s rewarded with a louder, more indulgent purr that rumbles over his skin.

He keeps this up until his eyes droop shut. Throughout the night, the cat remains a warm, reassuring weight.

\-----

The fields don’t change, but the terrain turns rugged underfoot.

On the thirty-fifth day of brass-coloured fields, Llamrei gets a rock stuck in her shoe.

Arthur notices immediately from the way Llamrei favours her left side. Tugs at the reins, stops her in her tracks. Before he can dismount, Arthur reaches for the dozing cat and picks it up unceremoniously (ignoring the little yowl), dropping it feet-first to the earth. 

Displeased at first, the cat nonetheless seems content to gnaw on a piece of grass. Not for long, however; as if a whistle’s been blown, the cat snaps to attention.

It stands, stock still for long, tense moments. An invisible axe drops, chops through an invisible tether and launches the cat into a wild sprint.

“Hey!” Arthur cries, jumping to his feet. The cat ignores him, swallowed up by wheat that shivers in its wake.

“Cat!” Arthur shouts again, voice coloured with panic. He’ll lose track of it—already, the trail of grass disturbed by the cat grows quieter.

So, he runs. There’s a small hill he skids down, flattening brass stems into the dirt. A motion—the cat’s tail flickers behind straw and snaps the wheat shut.

Arthur bursts through.

On the other side—

\-----

Arthur puts his hands on his knees, panting. Yards away, the damned cat sits on its rump and demurely licks its paw.

Arthur starts forward, meaning to yell when someone else beats him to the punch.

“Euclid!” 

Behind the cat, a man jogs forth, fringe flopping into his eyes. His hair is dark and wavy, curling over sunburnt ears and peeking out from behind his nape. “Euclid, where have you _been?_ ” he shouts, dropping down beside it with his elbows on his knees. “Don’t worry me like that, you naughty cat.”

The cat simply peers up at him with—no doubt—huge, liquid eyes. The man’s a total pushover; he immediately stops chastising and instead extends a finger, prodding the button of Euclid’s nose in an apparent peace offering. The cat scrunches its face for a moment, then laps at the fingertip. The man smiles crookedly.

The cat— _Euclid,_ Arthur corrects—loses interest after awhile, getting up and moseying off into the grass.

The man rises to his feet, shakes his head a bit, then reaches into the sack he’s got slung over a shoulder and pulls out a small, ratty pouch of something heavy. Behind him, six or seven chickens gather. Behind the chickens, there’s a small plot of tilled soil by a small, humble house, and behind them all, there’s sky. And wheat. Far as the eye can see, ocean of molten gold.

It’s only when Arthur shifts forward, scuffling dirt under his shoe, that the man turns around to reveal his face:

He looks weather-worn, a week’s worth of whiskers shading his face where shadows delve beneath diamond-cut cheekbones. In one hand is the pouch—the other, gathered in a loose fist by his side, feed spills out from between fingers.

Arthur straightens up, wipes his hands on his thighs. “Merlin,” he croaks.

Merlin drops the pouch from his hand. Chickens instantly flock to it, clucking about his feet, but he pays them no heed, too busy staring, open-mouthed.

Merlin may look older now, a little taller and his jaw more square, but that dumbstruck expression—big eyes, generous mouth curled into a moue of surprise—Merlin is still Merlin, and it’s seven years ago again.

_Merlin butts his head up into Arthur’s chin, tucks his cold nose against Arthur’s beating pulse point._

_‘Always, yeah?’ he asks breathlessly, to which Arthur’s reply would never change—_

“Can’t keep me away,” he says simply. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers. There’s sun in his face and stray grass in his hair, and Arthur probably looks no better, seven months on the road, the time on him visible in coarse layers of grime. It’s been seven long months, but now there’s just seven steps left, Arthur standing before Merlin and squinting his eyes. It’s bright behind.

When their mouths touch Arthur is glad to find that Merlin tastes the same, smiles the same, Merlin’s eyes dark with mirth when he looks at Arthur the same, and it’s no mystery that they’d end up here, eventually. Arthur and Merlin, backdrop of crops and a small flock of chickens. Sun sinking low, air cooling down. 

Arthur’s hand is in Merlin’s unruly hair, and Merlin’s breath hitches when he chants Arthur’s name. Says it softly, reverent, like invoking a spell.

No mystery that they’d end up here, eventually, finally.


End file.
